


I May Have Misspoke

by calrissian18



Series: Mating Games [10]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Camaro Abuse, Jealous Derek, M/M, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 03:10:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calrissian18/pseuds/calrissian18
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a road trip.  To kill witches.  What could possibly go wrong?</p><p>Written for mating_games Bonus Challenge 5: Road Trip.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I May Have Misspoke

 

Derek smacks his hand away. "No," he says incisively.  
  
Stiles pouts. "It's _too_ cold." He bundles his arms closer to his chest and hunkers down in Derek's stupid uncomfortable seats.  
  
"Touch it and I break that finger." Derek flashes fangs at him in a sharp smirk. "Then all the others."  
  
"I'm going to freeze to death," Stiles whines.  
  
Derek rolls his eyes. "Shut up."  
  
Stiles shifts about obnoxiously in his seat. "Your car is uncomfortable."  
  
"Your life is uncomfortable," Derek snaps back.  
  
Stiles grins. "You're the one who sucks at rock, paper, scissors."  
  
Derek's fingers tighten on the steering wheel and his eyes flick over to Stiles. "Rock has let me down," he says woefully. "Rock and I are no longer friends."  
  
Stiles actually laughs out loud and considers elbowing Derek in the side before thinking better of it. "Look who's got jokes." He snorts and says with a smile, "You know you love me."  
  
Derek's lips twitch. "Slander and lies."  
  
Stiles kicks his feet up on Derek's dash. "So... witches," he says, stretching out. "We're _going after_ witches. I mean, that just seems..."  
  
Derek pushes his legs down and scowls. "They tried to kill you," he says darkly. His eyes widen. " _Us_. The pack," he corrects quickly.  
  
Stiles hmphs. "Lots of things try to kill me, to be fair," he feels the need to point out. "They underestimate me because I can't go all growly."  
  
Derek's lips twitch again. "They do."  
  
Derek punches him so hard in the chest that there's no way it won't bruise. "Wake up," he growls.  
  
"Ow," Stiles cries out, rubbing his chest. "The hell?"  
  
"We're here," Derek says and he's not looking at Stiles. _Hasn't_ looked at Stiles. Derek throws a duffel bag full of books and sage and magic nonsense that's about forty pounds heavier than Stiles is equipped to deal with at his chest. It stings like a bitch.  
  
"What crawled up your ass?" Stiles yells but Derek's already walking away. Stiles runs after him just as Lydia's Mercedes screeches in next to them. He juggles the bag so he can kick Derek in the shin. "You're mad at me," he says petulantly.  
  
Derek doesn't look back at him but his jaw clenches unholy levels of tight. "I'm not."  
  
Scott bounds up behind him as Stiles finds a spot to start arranging his ingredients. One look at the knot of muscles that is Derek's back makes him fall back six steps. "What did you do?" he stage-whispers. Badly.  
  
Derek keeps walking and Stiles sighs, setting up the ring of boldo, and says helplessly, "I... have no idea."  


* * *

  
Derek doesn't speak to him the whole drive back from La Paz, which is fine. It's not like it's an impossibly. Long. Fucking. Drive. He won't even look at him and Stiles has _zero_ idea what he's done to piss him off so badly but after watching him tear someone limb from limb (the witch—warlock?—who'd decided to use Stiles's head for a basketball the week before), he's not entirely sure it's such a bad thing that Derek is treating him like a complete nonentity.  
  
"My feet are up on the dash."  
  
"I'm touching the A/C."  
  
"Changing the radio station."  
  
"Gutting a koala."  
  
" _Derek_."  
  
"Get out of my car, Stiles."  
  
Stiles twists in his seat. "Really, that's it? That's all you're going to say to me?" Derek sits there in front of Stiles's house, claws digging into the leather of his steering wheel and he doesn't say a fucking word. "Fine," Stiles says tightly, slamming the door on his way out.  


* * *

  
It's been a week and Stiles has tried to give him space. He _has_. But Derek is being a douche and cutting him out of Pack business and—so far as Stiles knows—he's done nothing to deserve it. He's already talking as he walks in the door. "Derek, okay, this has gone on long enough and I have no idea what I've even done but I'm _sorry_ , all right? So just get the fuck over it already."  
  
Derek comes down the stairs and crosses his arms over his chest. He looks at some spot just above Stiles's head. "Get out," he says flatly.  
  
Stiles rolls his eyes. "Derek, dude, seriously."

Derek's fist slams down on the bannister and a large crack splits the wood. "Get out, Stiles," he growls and his eyes filter red. "I mean it."  
  
Stiles grinds his teeth, nods once, and leaves.  
  
He doesn't come back.  


* * *

  
He knows Derek is outside his window before he drops in. Stiles doesn't turn. He leans his chin more heavily into his hand and stares unrelentingly at his computer screen. It's been a fucking month. He has every right to ignore Derek the way Derek's done to him.  
  
Derek clears his throat, says, "The Alpha Pack's back in town."  
  
Stiles taps his fingers against his mouth listlessly. "Mmm."  
  
Derek shifts against the window, squares his shoulders. "That's all you have to say?" he bites out childishly.  
  
Stiles huffs out a laugh that is so painfully unamused. "You've been cutting me out of everything for weeks. Not sure why you're here now really," he says truthfully.  
  
Derek grits his teeth and says like it costs him something, "You're still pack, Stiles."  
  
"Yeah, I'm not," Stiles says bluntly, waving his hand over his shoulder at Derek. "But it's fine, you know." It isn't but whatever. He's not about to argue it. Not anymore.  
  
There's a creaking behind him that's Derek tightening his fingers around the sill beneath his window and he lets out a pained noise. "You said, 'Lydia,'" he says, pushing down barely contained rage.  
  
Stiles blinks and turns around. "What?"  
  
Derek closes his eyes, lets out a sharp breath through his nose. "In the car. You fell asleep and you said—" Derek clenches his jaw, doesn't say it again.  
  
Stiles says it for him. "Lydia," he repeats wonderingly. He still doesn't understand. "Why does that even—I mean, okay, I said Lydia," which—admittedly—doesn't reflect that well on him because that's a crush he's been over for at least a _year_ but still, "so what?"  
  
Derek looks like someone's punched him in the face—or rather, like _Stiles_ has punched him in the face. "So what?" he repeats incredulously. "It was—" Derek clenches his jaw like he can't say more. He looks frustrated, red-faced and sort of constipated really and—Oh. My. God.  
  
Stiles's eyes widen. "Oh my god. You didn't get _stuck_ with me. You chose me. You planned a _road trip to Mexico_ so we could be alone together. You _like_ me. And I said—" Derek closes his eyes like he's in pain. Fuck. Stiles stands and takes a step towards him. "Derek, it's my subconscious. I cannot be held responsible for what my subconscious does. I had _no_ idea that you liked—"  
  
Derek laughs and it's strange and wrecked and sad and he says, "Love."  
  
Stiles freezes. "What?"  
  
Derek glares at him.  
  
Stiles swallows and says weakly, "You know you're talking to me, right?"  
  
"Stiles." And that's Derek's no nonsense tone so he's going to have to pull it together soon even if this is just, frankly, _impossible_.  
  
"Right," he tries. Even if his head isn't _totally_ wrapped around the idea yet. "Sorry. I— _Really_?"  
  
Derek shakes his head and doesn't even wait for a proper answer before he's jumping back out Stiles's window.  
  
"Derek," Stiles calls after him even though he has no idea what he's going to _say_ but it doesn't matter. The dark has swallowed him whole.  


* * *

  
Stiles is waiting for him by the time he walks through the door. He's sitting up on Derek's sunken couch as he enters the living room. Derek freezes seeing him. It's obvious he's been for a run, he's breathing hard, clutching a water bottle in his hand and he looks—Yeah. Greek God-ish.  
  
"You fled," Stiles accuses. "There was _fleeing_ , Derek."  
  
Derek looks uncomfortable. "I was giving you space."  
  
Stiles huffs, stands up. "What if I don't want space?"  
  
Derek backs up a step. "You're in high school, you don't know what you want. I shouldn't have—"

Stiles scoffs. "I was wondering when the martyr part of the act would begin." He rubs at his forehead. "Though I was hoping we could maybe bypass it all together."  
  
Derek sighs and comes closer like he can't help himself. "Stiles," he starts weakly.  
  
Stiles pushes him hard in the chest. "You fell in love with _me_ , okay," he says pointedly, angry and frustrated and desperate for Derek to just _understand_ , "so you had your feelings and now I get to have mine and I want this. I want you if you can get your head out of your ass about it and be okay with wanting me too then I think we cou—"  
  
The rest is lost to Derek's lips and tongue and mouth and it's good. It's really, _really_ good.

**Author's Note:**

> Look at how I gather all good things in [one place](http://wellhalesbells.tumblr.com/). Jealous?


End file.
